


Pieces

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Returns, Conditioning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Medical Procedures, Oral Sex, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Torture, not in a sexual way though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky returns, conditioned to take orders, riddled with PTSD and terrified of the world around him. Steve wants to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back

It was cold. Cold enough that Steve’s breaths clouded in front of him in sharp puffs as he ran through the dark, rain-dampened streets of DC. He remembered a time when even standing still in this weather would have rendered him a wheezing mess. Now he was in a full blown sprint, desperate for more resistance and challenge against his limbs to drive out the deep frustration nestled low in his stomach. It had made its home there the day he woke up after Bucky had pulled him from the Potomac and it did not seem to want to leave. He had done the searching, the long nights of walking around the city with peeled eyes and a weary head, that days when he and Sam would radio each other on any visuals, Sam from the sky and Steve on his motorcycle. Bucky was doing a very good job at alluding them both. He was highly trained in the art of evaporating into thin air, it seemed.

Steve gritted his teeth and pumped his arms and legs as fast as he could, until he felt the satisfying burn in his calves that he had been chasing. He felt the soles of his running shoes heat up. He suppressed a growl through his clenched jaw and closed his eyes through the effort of streaking down the rain slicked road, crossing from the footpath to the main road which was empty at this time of night. The darkness of his closed eyes made the whirring whistle if wind past his ears even more disorientating.

He hit something.

The force sent him skidding, grazing his ankles on the tarmac painfully. Whatever he had hit, it was sturdy. It had stopped him mid-sprint but was warm and softer than it should have been to stay so resilient against him. Steve opened his eyes, jumping to his feet.

 _Should’ve bought that damned shield,_ he thought to himself, but any caution drained from him as he took in what he had collided with. Or rather, who.

 

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice was a breathless whisper, more to himself than to the soldier standing in front of him. He guessed he had come from a roof, or behind a car.

Bucky was wearing civilian clothes for the most part, a grey t-shirt with rain-dampened shoulders and sneakers, but the same combat pants from the bridge. His hair was wet and slightly longer, pulled behind his ears haphazardly with pieces dropping over his face. He was standing with his shoulders set to fight or run, Steve couldn’t tell, but his face said something different.

It was odd seeing him like this, with no adrenaline or explosions or pain to cloud his vision. Bucky was like a patchwork quilt. Some things, like the way he stood so squarely now, his metal arm, and the way his mouth was set in a scared line, were so drastically different from the old Bucky. But his eyes had not changed. Not one bit.

“I do not have an assignment,” Bucky’s voice was tired and flat, “Permission to debrief and disarm.”

Bucky reached into his pockets and produced a small pistol and two knives. He pushed them toward Steve, not looking him in the eye, more over his right shoulder.

Steve took the weapons and put them in his pockets. He was not sure what to say, so he just waited for an explanation. Fine rain had started yet again to fall, warping like dust moats through the orange glow of the street lamps.

“Are you…surrendering?” Steve asked, taking Bucky’s wrists in his hands. They were cool.

Bucky frowned at Steve’s hands.

“You don’t need to handcuff me,” Bucky muttered, “I haven’t had an insubordination incident for over six months. I’m responding well to conditioning.”

Steve’s voice caught and he felt tears ache behind his nose, dragged out by Bucky’s words.

“Not gonna’ cuff you Buck,” Steve croaked, “Just wanted to…”

Steve quit and shook his head.

“I know you,” Bucky stated, letting his hands go limp in Steve’s.

Steve nodded.

“My orders, I didn’t have anyone to debrief with…” Bucky’s face became pained and confused, looking at the wet ground and focusing intently, tying to remember or make sense of his own situation.

“Let’s get you into the warm,” Steve guided Bucky down the road with a light hand on his back, “We need to talk.”

 

#

Steve guided Bucky up the stairs of his apartment building in silence, glancing occasionally toward the soldier to see if he looked okay. Steve could not say; Bucky’s face had stayed fixed in the same half-panicked, half-confused expression the whole way there and would only shift for a matter of seconds at a time. The world seemed to buzz around the soldier, flexing and blurring but never really touching him. Steve could not tell if he was insensitive to stimulus, or so sensitive that shutting down was the only way he could cope.

“Here we are,” Steve sighed opening the apartment door.

Bucky stood stock-still in the doorway, staring blankly at his toes positioned right on the gold boundary between the dark red carpet of the hall and the wooden floor of Steve’s apartment. A few moments passed before he looked up at Steve.

“Can I have permission to enter?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, like he had not spoken for a while.

Steve smiled, nodding slowly and guiding Bucky by the shoulders before sitting him down on the couch.

“Okay, I’m gonna’ get you some clothes and blankets,” Steve started.

Bucky nodded, as if taking a briefing, mentally noting his instructions.

“Stay there for me, please don’t leave.”

Steve cringed at how desperate he sounded, but it was true. He was absolutely desperate not to lose Bucky again. He could not feel that pain again, that frustrated pain of watching someone slip away. That feeling of wanting to scream for another chance, he did not think he could take that again.

He dug through his dresser for sweats and a t-shirt and pulled a large fleece blanket out of the cupboard.

“Put these on, you’re soaked,” Steve handed Bucky the clothes, realising that straight commands were getting through to Bucky the best, and turned his back, busying himself in the fridge.

The apartment was small and minimally decorated, but it was all Steve needed; he was hardly ever there and spent most of his time with SHIELD nowadays. If he worked late there, he would sleep over and go home in the morning, probably returning to the hulking grey and blue building later in the day anyway. Something about it pulled him back. Distraction, he guessed.

“I’m done,” Bucky said quietly, making Steve jump a little.

Steve nodded and chucked Bucky’s wet clothes into the washing machine before setting down a bottle of water and sandwich in front of him. To his surprise, Bucky started eating without order, hunger probably overriding conditioning altogether.

“You’ll tell me if you need anything, won’t you?” Steve asked, putting a hand on Bucky’s knee.

The warmth of him felt like a burn. Steve had forgotten how much he had missed that feeling.

Bucky gave a gentle nod before finishing the sandwich.

“Well done,” Steve said, taking the plate and putting on the counter, “Get some sleep for me, Buck.”

Bucky laid down, pulling the big fleece over himself and sighing quietly as his shoulders hit the softest surface he had felt for decades.

Steve waved goodnight and turned to leave, switching off the lights.

“Steve Rogers.”

Steve turned to Bucky’s voice.

“That’s me,” Steve whispered.

Bucky sat up so he could see over the edge of the couch.

“Stay,” Bucky muttered, looking almost ashamed, “Please stay here.”

Steve smiled slightly, trying to stop it becoming a grin too hastily and crossed the room in the pitch black. Bucky moved his legs and Steve sat down on the end of the couch, cramped but happy as he watched Bucky fall asleep.

He let his head drop against the back of the couch and closed his eyes, smiling in the dark as he felt sleeping metal fingers curl through his.

He had him back.

 


	2. Kiss Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flashback, panic attack and torture TW.

_Bucky’s vision tunnelled and greyed as his current handler sent another crackling jolt of electrical current through the plates attached to the sides of his head. He bit down on the rubber block between his teeth to stifle a yell. Schäfer was sadistic; screaming was just an invitation for more callousness. He was a slight man, with thinning, oily hair that was desperately scraped across a shiny, liver-spotted scalp with generous lashings of pomade and determination. He licked the corners of his mouth every thirty seconds, leaving them permanently glossed in a sheen of spit and he spoke with a German accent so thick that Bucky wondered how the aides managed to take his orders. The bunker was almost empty besides them, so the evil bastard had Bucky all to himself._

_“This is what happens when you go on and on about this ‘Steve’ fellow,” Schäfer grunted, shoving Bucky’s head back roughly so his temples sat more flush with the electrical plates. The pain intensified_

_“You are not allowed to remember, agent, your memories will mean nothing to you when you are doing our noble work.”_

_Tears ran down Bucky’s face and hissed against the hot blue lights of the machine Bucky was tethered to. Screaming became unavoidable and the taste of vomit and blood filled his mouth, but his jaw was locked so he would have to cope. He swallowed hard and composed himself as much as he could. He knew what was coming next._

_The image of Steve’s face burned behind his eyes. He focused on it, like holding on to wet soap as the spastic jerks of current tore through his head, upturning any weaker memories that stood in their way. Bucky let his tears take over completely as Steve’s image began to warp and efface, like ink through water. Slowly, his concept of self and meaning began to weaken, settling him into a stark numbness._

_Bucky promised himself that he would see that image again, before letting a merciful state of unconsciousness pull him under._

Steve awoke to a dull ache in his left hand. He thought he had slept on it until he looked down to see Bucky’s fingers twisted around his like they had been all night, only much tighter.

“Buck,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his eyes sleepily but speeding up his actions when Bucky’s hands tightened even further.

“M’sorry Stevie…losing you again…” Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep and disorientation.

He rubbed the soldier’s shoulder, squeezing against the tension. His face was flushed and there was a glaze of sweat on his forehead. Steve winced as he heard his teeth grind together painfully.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve shook him harder, trying to ignore the pain in his hand, “James, wake up!”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open and he sat up sharply, letting go of Steve’s hand and pushing him away.

“Hey,” Steve put his hands up in submission as he saw a flash of confused anger twist Bucky’s mouth, “It’s me Bucky, just me.”

Bucky’s breathing shuddered and he let his shoulders drop. Steve nearly gasped as the soldier let himself slump forward, burying his face into Steve’s shoulder and holding onto his arms like he was going to float away. Steve accustomed to Bucky’s unexpected and surprising willingness to be touched, wrapping his arms his waist and stroking the sweat-dampened hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve whispered into Bucky’s hair, rocking slowly, “You’re not losing me.”

Bucky nodded into Steve’s neck, his breath still coming in tense gasps. His fingers tightened around his biceps, flexing against the dense muscle through the cotton of his t-shirt. Heat against his fingertips was unfamiliar and tempting. Bucky let his hands run back over the Captain’s shoulders and down to his hips. He felt the tremble of a shiver from Steve and pulled his hands away sharply, digging his fingernails into his palms and shifting away from the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said hurriedly, flushing deeper red and flinching, “You didn’t give me permission…”

Steve shook his head, pulling Bucky back gently.

“You’re allowed,” Steve reassured, holding the soldier tighter, letting his lips ghost his neck as he spoke and smiling at the catch in Bucky’s breath.

He knew he needed to go slow, let Bucky set the pace, but every ounce of Steve ached for the contact that used to be normal. The hugs that were an everyday occurrence and the heat that he had dreamt about every day since Bucky fell. He wanted to make up for the nights of red raw eyes and clenched fist, sobs muffled by army regulation pillows and photographs torn to shreds. He wanted to wipe out what Hydra had done, melt it with warmth. Get rid of the winter that had filtered its way into Bucky’s chest and tightened around every nerve. Steve could feel it now, Bucky resisting the urge to flinch or push, battling with arousal he did not feel like he was allowed. It made Steve’s blood boil that he could not enjoy basic comfort fully.

“I’ve missed you Bucky,” Steve sighed, nuzzling deeper into the soldiers arms.

There was something cautious and out of practice about the way that Bucky held Steve. His hand knew where they wanted to be but they either barely touched the skin, or squeezed for all he was worth. He did not know whether to avoid pleasure or not. He had not been commanded, ordered or assigned these actions, no handler or orderly had barked out the words, threatened him with torture if he did not comply. He was acting on _choice._

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice came out quieter than he had hoped, almost lost against Steve’s cheek, “I need orders.”  


Steve pulled away and looked a Bucky deeply, cupping his cheeks and brushing his thumbs over the damp dark circles under his eyes, rubbing away tears. The blood beneath the flushed skin dispersed at the pressure, leaving light thumbprints before filling with colour again.

“Kiss me,” Steve breathed.

“Like we used to, just kiss me,” Steve could hear his voice tightening and growing hoarse.

Bucky hesitated before pressing his parted lips against Steve’s, so light and soft that Steve could feel cool gusts of breath over his tongue before he closed his mouth, pulling Bucky’s bottom lip between his. His heart hammered in his ears. He pressed the tip of his tongue against Bucky’s, pulling him forward so their chests touched, making them a tangle of bent legs and cramped feet on the small couch.

Bucky shifted away, shock and arousal painted on his face.

The shock was new to Steve, this anxiety and coyness was not something he had seen in Bucky before the war. James Buchanan Barnes had been one of the most confident men he had met, even if it was bravado sometimes. He was one of those men who was general unfazed by most situations, and even if he was, glossed over it was suave yet boyish swagger, _“It ain’t nothin’”_ he would say, shrugging nonchalantly as he wiped spilt milk off his slacks or walked away from a fight with a few broken ribs. The arousal on the other hand, the red cheeks, bitten lips and the frustrated little frown that was weaving over Bucky’s brow, now that was familiar.

And Steve loved it.

 

 

 


	3. Means a Lot

“Sam?” Steve picked up the phone.

“Tell me, Cap,” Sam replied, sounding action-ready. Steve grinned and suppressed the urge to make him play a guessing game.

Sam had been just as enthusiastic about Bucky’s return as Steve had, planning things to show him and stories to tell about the 21st century; just like he had with Steve. The excitement and earnest had warmed Steve to Sam even more, as if he had needed another reason.

“He came back,” Steve announced, almost hearing Sam smile on the other end of the line, “And I’m going to try and convince him to come to Avengers Tower to meet the gang, tonight.”

He heard the sound of Sam telling someone else and then a cheer. Natasha.

“Wait?” Steve chuckled, “You’re already there?”

The closer he listened, he could hear the sounds of commotion and fun in the background. Tony’s obnoxious laugh. Mainly Tony’s obnoxious laugh.  


Sam confirmed, explaining that Tony had suggested they make it a day thing for anyone who could make it. Clint and Bruce had just turned up, and Thor would be leaving in the next couple of hours. He had ‘other-worldly’ matters to attend to.

“Shall I pick you up?” Sam offered, “I really don’t mind.”

Steve considered; it would be helpful. He was not sure how Bucky would react to being on the back of a motorcycle for half an hour, on the same freeway they had fought on only months ago. He played it safe, taking up the offer.

“Cool, on my way Steve,” Sam said eagerly before hanging up the phone.

Steve made his way across the living room and sat next to Bucky on the couch. He was where he had been most of the morning, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head towards the floor. Steve had asked if he was okay multiple times, being met with quiet, flat ‘yesses’ or silent nods. He was relaxed and completely tense all at the same time, his hands hanging limp in front of him but shoulders as tight as a barge rope. Steve was giving him his space, assuming that the kiss the day before   had shaken him a little, even if he had enjoyed it well enough. He had noticed that Bucky needed recovery periods from anything testing.

“D’you wanna go out for a bit?” Steve proposed now, “Meet some of my friends, the guys I work with?”

Bucky paused, Steve was not sure if he had heard him for a moment.

“The Avengers?” Bucky asked, tilting his head slightly so Steve could see the edge of his eyelashes.

Steve nodded.

“No,” Bucky muttered.

Not aggressively, but with a certainty and nonchalant honesty that almost made Steve chuckle. He did not blame Bucky for the tentativeness. Natasha would be there, and Sam, both of which were people that Bucky had tried to kill. There would be glass floors, elevators, holograms and all other manner of difficult to explain and unnerving things. Steve knew, he’d felt it. When he had walked over one of the glass floors in the tower for the first time he had gotten so dizzy that he had laid down flat on the ground, clutching the glass with sweaty hands and green cheeks. JARVIS’s voice, and the way that no one else batted an eyelid to it, had made Steve think that he was hallucinating. It had been difficult for him, and he had all of his old memories as a back-up. Bucky did not.

“They’d all love to meet you,” Steve assured, leaning into Bucky slightly closer, so his nose brushed the drape of dark hair shielding his face.

“I’ll ruin it,” Bucky almost whispered, “I’ll embarrass you in front of your partners.”

Steve felt an all too familiar and uncomfortable knock in his gut at the soldier’s words.

“They’re not just my partners,” Steve tilted Bucky’s chin up, looking into his eyes for a brief moment before he pinned them to the floor again, “They’re my friends, and they understand how hard things are for you.”

Bucky shook his head.

“Please?” Steve kissed Bucky’s temple, “Just wanna’ show you off, s’all.”

Buck showed a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth but it twitched and fell. Smiling was not something he did much yet.

“Will I be allowed to leave, if it’s too difficult?” Bucky asked.

Steve nodded surely.

“Can I sit near the exit?” Bucky asked again.

“You can sit wherever you want, pal,” Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s knee.

Bucky sighed slowly, looking up and at his darkened reflection in the inactive television screen. His hair could do with a cut and probably a wash too. He tried to smile but again, let it fall as he watched his mouth crumple into an unfamiliar shape that felt like it had been drawn on. Not his, not meant for his lips.

“Okay,” Bucky agreed, “I’ll come.”

Steve pulled Bucky into a hug, pressing the bridge of his nose into his neck and breathing in that familiar ‘hot skin’ smell he loved.

“Means a lot, Buck,” Steve whispered into the small warm space.

Bucky went lax and pliant at the heat and sensitivity of breath over skin.

“You mean a lot,” Bucky shrugged, closing his eyes.

Steve did mean a lot. More than anything Bucky could remember. Maybe it had always been that way.

 


End file.
